


An Age So Cold

by FoxLight



Category: Sanctuary (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 11:10:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3379352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoxLight/pseuds/FoxLight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kate stumbles upon a scene straight out of the 1880s and contemplates Helen's frail condition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Age So Cold

**Author's Note:**

> Set during season three, just after Helen finds out that she has acquired radiation poisoning.

Kate watches them from behind the door frame, peeking around the corner like a fox peeks from behind a tree. It is a private moment, a tender moment, and one she knows that she is not allowed to witness but she cannot help but look on anyways. It is rare for her to see her boss so unhinged, so willing to let someone else take the reins for a while. The sight of it sews her feet to the ground. There, before her curious shoulders and her marshmallow eyes, the two gods dance. They drift two and fro like leaves in the winter wind--a flash out of an old movie or picture.

He hums something--the cold one, the menace--a strange tune that is shadowy and sad. It reminds her of night-time waves by the sea. The dark man’s throat is old and the tune flows through it as thickly as honey or clotted milk. If a mountain could speak, this would be its voice. She feels like it will make her rust away and it almost frightens her, the way the voice sounds, but the lullaby it weaves contrasts the ominous tone--a melody that promises a future of warmth and light. These are things that the demon inside can never give. It occurs to the young one that they have done this before--the music, the love, the dance--she can tell, but never in a time like this; never in an age so cold. 

Notes ooze from his throat like droplets of wax. They ring like falling trees, timbre cracking blankly through the chilly, muted air. Somehow that crooked voice gives the ancient spirits life--lover and lover wrapped in a blanket of mist. For a while, they pendulate, moving in and out like a breath, but then a glimmer of frailty catches Kate’s eye. Something about their movements seem forced, stiff, like a smile that does not meet the eyes. The song is falling short of its goal. The dense air tolls with empty wonder.

The boss’s body is shaking and it takes Kate a minute to realize that the dark one has been holding her up, keeping her steady the whole time. Kate’s heart drops at the sight of it. The sickness is taking hold--a gift from the man with two souls in his breast--and it is like watching a statue fall. Helen has been insisting that she will find a way to overcome it, tells everyone that she feels fine. Kate does not believe her--she knows that trick too well, trying to act as a ballast against the pain others feel at the sight of her. It works a little. Helen’s courage is, as always, an inspiration, but they all know what is going to happen.

Auburn eyes turn back to the music-box performance and she watches the paper maché dolls sway back and fourth with ageless grace.

Everything stops when Helen stumble a little. Kate almost gasps to see the blue eyes cast down in strange humiliation. 

“I’m sorry, John,” she hears her boss speak with a voice as soft as ash. They have stopped dancing. The watcher’s heart skips a beat.

“Please don’t be,” the devils croons, hushing into her ear. He plants a kiss into her hair. “It’s alright.”

Helen does not seem to agree with him and she distances herself a little. Somehow, the stumble shatters the scene, breaking a rare moment of blissful illusion.

He lets go of her then, lets her drift away and the world goes from black and white to color as the young girl watches them return to themselves. This distance, she knows, is their mantra, and she sees the Ripper’s eyes drop to know that he has lost her again. Helen moves to grasp at the desk beside her, shaking her head when he tries to step in and help. He halts, backs away, and clasps his hands together at his front, then stands as still as a stone. Everything becomes cordial and distant, like the moment never happened.

“I need to be alone, John.” Helen says, staring through the surface of the table. The boss will not sit down and Kate can guess why. For all that he is tall, Helen will never let the menace stand above her. 

“Helen.” The name flows out of him like butter; a hymn for the reverent soul. The boss closes her eyes at the protest, and Kate does too. 

“Please leave,” she hears the tempering words through the darkness.

The command, it seems, is immediately obeyed and Kate’s eyelids fly open at the sound of heavy footsteps. She panics, feeling much like a doe in a meadow, then plasters herself in frozen fear against the hardness of the wall. There is nothing to be done; it is too late to flee, so she lets her heartbeats count the seconds until her pale discovery.

There is no fire in his gaze when he sees her, nor do any words flow out of his thin and sharpened lips. He pauses for the briefest of moments, examining her like a speck of dust. Kate swallows and nods. He looks like a fallen tree and her brows furrow in concern. The piercing man studies her, his pupils stained with verdigris. His emotions are acute, tangible; she can feel them in his weary face and see them in his hollow soul. He envies her youth, her _chance,_ and Kate worries that he might do something about it but then his eyes pass through her and he forgets that she is there. The languid steps continue along the hallway.

Kate looks at him, a pile of dampened embers floating back to the darkness, sensing his pain, his defeat. Then, she turns to regard the frame of the doorway to the boss’s office. In a moment of bravery, she enters. Helen has managed to sit down now and has her hands tented across her eyes. The younger one cannot see them, but she knows that there are tears. She has always imagined Helen to cry silently. 

Kate does not know how can she help someone so old, how she can possibly offer comfort against a death she cannot understand, but she tries. Her feet fall forward, as if pulled by a string to her leader's side. Helen does not move when she places a warm hand on her trembling shoulder. She knows that Kate is there. Kate wonders if she had known the whole time. It does not matter, she thinks, because Helen is crumbling behind the wall of strength she puts up every day. Kate's eyes want to water at the thought that Helen might be gone in a week or so. 

A spark of surprise catches the younger woman when Helen's hand falls on hers. Her throat catches, then she curls herself around the back of the chair and drapes herself across the older woman's shoulders. Somehow, she hopes she can shield Helen against the torrent of anguish, even if only for a brief expanse of time. The golden light from the window surrounds them like a shawl and Kate closes her amber eyes. She feels Helen breathe and matches the cadence, feeling much like a bird trying to comfort a star. 

"Thank you," she hears in the frailest of whispers and Kate smiles sadly at the sound. Her heart grows as warm as the sunset and stands like a pillar against the raging night, a small ship sailing valiantly against an ocean of infirmity. She can only hope that Helen feels its heat, however small, and that it helps to keep her standing for as long as time allows.


End file.
